it’s in the Council Offices at Buckingham.” Seymour referred to his notes. “Apparently that’s now standard procedure, though it seems the local incumbent slipped up, he was still holding one register he should have forwarded on.”
“Why do they have to do that?”
“Safety reasons,” said Seymour. “It’s to guard against fire, though I gather the main reason nowadays is fear of vandalism.”
“A reflection of the times we live in,” grunted Fillery. “Did you go to Buckingham?”
“No, I thought I’d report to you first, in any case, I wasn’t quite sure how to attack it from that point, genealogical research in a genealogical establishment is new to me.”
“Well, it should be much the same as anything else, similar to delving into police records and the like,” said Fillery. “When will you do that?”
“Well I thought I’d try and waylay these two old timers in the village, they may remember something about the two families. According to the landlord they were living in the village at that time, albeit as youngsters, but they may remember something that will assist us.”
“A few drinks may refresh their memories,” Fillery said with a smile. “OK. Best of luck with it. I’ll give Norman Ruddock a call and tell him what we’ve done so far.”
Seymour decided to make a full weekend of it, he booked a room at the hotel for the Saturday night and took his wife down with him. They arrived early on the Saturday morning and were shown to the room by the landlord.
“This looks good,” commented Andrea Seymour as she surveyed the gleaming white painted decor and the old style furniture. She went to the window and looked at the view of the main road and the car park below.
“Even better when the company is paying for it,” remarked Seymour, coming up behind her. “You look pretty good yourself.”
“Clearly you’re after something,” she sniffed, but showed no inclination to move away. “So it wasn’t me you were thinking of when you suggested I came as well.”
“Don’t you kid yourself!”
They had a good lunch at the hotel and then spent most of the afternoon and early evening touring around the local neighbourhood, visiting nearby villages and all the old buildings and churches. Seymour was astonished at how much history there was in the local area, the church at Sedrup was apparently built around 1273, and Bishopstone, as Bissopeston, was mentioned in manorial rolls in 1227. The day was good, there was a brief flurry of rain in mid afternoon, but it soon cleared and the sunshine was hot for the rest of their excursion. They returned to the hotel, and decided to have dinner there.
“How do you want to arrange it?” asked Andrea.
“Not too sure, according to my conversation with the landlord last week these two usually arrive round about 7.00 pm and spend the rest of the night here reminiscing, or playing dominoes or whatever. It’s a question of whether we have dinner first, or after, I don’t want to leave you sitting at the table on your own while I try and extract information from them.”
“I’d say try and find them first, and don’t rush it,” said Andrea. “I’ve had a good day, and I’ve probably over eaten anyway. Do what you have to do, and when you’ve finished come back up here and we can sort out whether or not we need a meal later.”
Seymour thought about it, and realised she was talking sense. If he had to rush the interview with the two old villagers he could miss something of importance. He knew Andrea was perfectly happy to be on this trip with him. She wasn’t demanding his total attention throughout the trip, as a professional herself she knew he had to get his job done.
So it was about 7 o’clock when Seymour presented himself down below in the bar, the landlord indicated an old man sitting in the corner near the fire.
“That’s Josh Wilkins,” he said. “Sam Cuddeston isn’t with us tonight, he only came out of hospital this morning, I’m sorry about that, I didn’t know myself until a few minutes ago.”
“Hospital?” Seymour was alarmed. “What’s been the trouble?”
“Trouble he’s had for years, his son finally persuaded him to do something about his knee, he was tired of him groaning with pain every step he took and wandering around with a crutch and complaining all the time. Sam had a knee reconstruction, or whatever they do down there these days, something to do with his cartilage. I knew he was intending to have the job done, apparently it was put forward to this week.”
“Well, if they’ve done the job properly he’ll never regret it,” commented Seymour. “I crocked mine playing Rugby, it gave me hell for some years. After I had the operation I’ve never felt better.”
“I’ll give his son a ring later, ” said the landlord. “As far as Josh is concerned, he knows you want a word with him. I haven’t said exactly what it’s about, he knows it’s about the 1920’s but I haven’t told him too much, I’ve left that to you.”
Josh Wilkins was aware that Seymour was heading for him across the bar-room. His eyes slanted across in Seymour’s direction but otherwise he made no sign. He looked up slowly and quizzically as Seymour stood before him on the other side of the small table.
“The old bastard!” thought Seymour. “He’s playing innocent, I reckon this is going to cost me!”
“Good evening! Josh Wilkins?”
“That’s me,” the old man looked up and then his eyes strayed down to his half empty glass. Seymour was tempted to offer a full glass straight away, but then decided against it. He didn’t want to surrender too easily, if he plied him with drinks right away he could find himself buying all night.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Free country,” said the other.
Seymour sat down and perceived this was not going to be easy. He had the feeling that any information would have to be dragged out on the sharp end of a filled pint pot! Josh Wilkins could be anything over 80 years of age, he would have to be if he possessed an intimate knowledge of the denizens of the village in the 1920’s. What hair he had was white, he was bald but had a tuft of hair in the front and middle of his head which he had allowed to grow and then combed back across his bald pate. His face was wizened and had many brown patches on it, his eyes were pale blue and rheumy. He was wearing a very old coat, buttoned up despite sitting close to the fire, the top button had been replaced by a large safety pin. He smelt of peppermints.
“You’ve been living here for many years, I understand,” hazarded Seymour.
“Quite a few.”
“You’d have known many people who lived here way back, even just after the Great War?”
“Maybe.”
Seymour decided against beating about the bush and tried to come straight to the point.
“Some members of my family used to live around here, about 1920 onwards.”
The old man raised one eyebrow as he looked at Seymour, then his hand reached out to his beer glass and he drained what was left.
